"This honey month
I'm telling you don't
go turning your radio on,
And this honey month,
with the wine on your breath,
and singing the same stolen song,
I want you to know,
I want you to know,
What you don't want to know."

I believe my end falls in the midst of an unfortunate collision between a migrating Oortwhale Hive and Cthulhu's moped, somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse. Cthulhu didn't use his indicator. I am on the same Sagittarius Dwarf Elliptical Motorway at the time, driving my modified Ford Prefect well within the unlimited speed limit since I'm just running it in, and get caught up in the carnage, mangled to mush in the mudguard of Cthulhu's front wheel.

'Course, I could be wrong - there are many variables. It'll probably be cancer.

The boys are on the wagon, the girls are on the shelf; their common problem is that they're not someone else. The dirt blows out, the dust blows in, you can't keep it neat. It's a fully furnished dustbin, 16 Beasley Street.